


Brother, See, We Are One And The Same

by geckoholic



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Multi, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6462778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Bartons are good at not talking about things, excellent in fact, and from what he grasped so far Kate is similar enough to Clint that she'd be happy to skip out on the awkward your-brother-caught-us-in-the-act conversation as well.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother, See, We Are One And The Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).



> Yes. Hawkeye Cubed for you, because I shall never turn down an excuse to dig myself deeper into that particular trash can. ;D
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Two-Headed Boy" by Neutral Milk Hotel.

Clint's loft is not a great place to share with someone – all open spaces, no closed doors except for the bathroom. Barney sleeps on the couch, because it's that or sharing a bed and they're not kids anymore. And here's the thing; Barney sleeps like the dead. Seriously. A bomb could explode next to him, and he'd just burrow deeper into his pillow and carry on snoring. The only thing that's capable of waking him before he's well rested is his bladder. What? He's reached a certain age. Getting up at least once per night is standard, and to reach the bathroom, he's got to climb up the stairs – they creak – and march past his brother's bed, who doesn't sleep as soundly. Nodding at Clint in the dark to apologize for having woken him up is a nightly ritual Barney could well do without, thank you very much. 

But it is how it is, and Barney can hardly piss in the sink. Another night, and he's up at 2:30 AM with a certain pressure in his groin. He groans and rubs his eyes, throws the blanket aside and sets upon his business. The creak of the stairs to the upstairs sounds unnaturally loud in the silent loft, and at first that's all Barney hears, same as every night. He's basically still asleep, got other things on his mind. 

Then he makes out the low moans, the rhythmic sound of a hand underneath a linen comforter, the whispered voices. He stills, a hand on the railing of the stairs. Assumes it's Clint beating one off, and hey, they used to share a room/trailer/whatever for most of their childhood. Nothing Barney hasn't witnessed before. It's awkward, but what can you do, he wouldn't have gotten off the couch if he didn't _really_ have to relieve himself in the first place. He rushes past the bed and into the bathroom, head low, considers mumbling his apology this time but decides that would only make things weirder, and steps back out after he's done his business. 

For a brief second before he flips the light switch off in the bathroom, the harsh glow from the bare light bulb in the bathroom illuminates the bedroom too. Barney glances up before he remembers that's an eyeful he'd rather avoid, but the picture in front of him isn't Clint masturbating alone. He's got company. 

It's not news to him that his brother and the girl, his protégé or whatever, are fucking. They're not telling, but they aren't particularly subtle about it either. Barney's no smart man, but he had that one worked out already. They just don't usually do it _right in front of him_. 

“Fuck,” Barney says, regrets it immediately when the sheets rustle and he realizes they're both looking at him. He can make out the silhouette of Kate, sitting up, and Clint scrambling, and that's all he sees because he's rushing down the stairs, retreating back to the couch, blanket thrown over his head. 

 

*** 

 

Nobody mentions it over breakfast. Bartons are good at not talking about things, excellent in fact, and from what he grasped so far Kate is similar enough to Clint that she'd be happy to skip out on the awkward your-brother-caught-us-in-the-act conversation as well. 

The only thing that changes, over the next few days, is that Clint and Kate altogether give up on trying to pretend they're not an item – they curl up even closer together on the couch when they're all watching TV in the evenings, and steal kisses where Barney can see. No word is exchanged about _that_ either, but he's in on this secret now, anyway, so they probably don't see any sense in keeping up the ruse. 

And then it happens again. 

 

*** 

 

They sent him for a pizza run, minutes after they returned from a mission he wasn't supposed to know about and didn't bother asking for details on, and because they were both dirty and bloody and had exhaustion coming off them in waves when they'd stumbled through the door, Barney had huffed and put on his jacket and marched to the Italian place around the corner. He can be a nice person if he fucking wants to. On occasion. Having successfully acquired the requested food, he places the boxes on the counter and steps around the dog that's weaving around his legs, shooting it a glare. 

“Not for you,” he grumbles, and sets out to search for his brother and his girlfriend. He climbs up the stairs, assuming that they went for a nap and fell asleep in the twenty minutes it'd taken him to organize the food, but finds the bed empty. He's about to climb back down and start helping himself to a slice or three all on his own when he hears the shower going in the adjoining bathroom. Barney turns to yell something along the lines of _better hurry before I eat all the pizza by myself_ and immediately steps back in... shock, sort of, when he's greeted by an open door and the resulting full view of his brother and Kate under the spray, the shower curtain drawn to the side. She's standing behind him, her hand moving in front of his body in a way that's familiar and leaves little to the imagination, but that Barney's hesitant to confirm by glancing a little lower. Clint is leaning against her chest, head thrown back and eyes closed, hips moving in rhythm with the motions of her hand. 

Barney swallows. He should hurry downstairs and, well, set plates or something, get a drink maybe, and wait for them to finish up here and join him in front of the TV. He should do that. He really should. 

Instead he glances down. 

Captivated and rooted to the spot, he watches Kate's hand move up and down his brother's dick, the head disappearing and reappearing between her fingers. He watches the muscles in Clint's ass work as he's moves with her, watches the flat plane of his stomach shift with every deep exhale. He listens close to make out Clint's groans in between the sound of the water pouring down on them. 

That's when Kate meets his eyes, and Barney damn near swallows his tongue. She grins at him and nudges Clint, who turns in her arms and looks up as well; neither of them shies away or even misses a beat. Clint keeps pumping his hips, and Kate directs her gaze back downwards, to, as Barney finds when he follows her line of sight, watch herself as she rubs her thumb over the head of Clint's dick. She nuzzles at his neck when he closes his eyes and rests his weight against her again. 

And see, Barney's always been a little fucked in the head. Knocked around once too much by their dad, probably. Only explanation for the fact that he tried to kill his own baby brother often enough that it could be considered a habit, really, and in the light of that, getting hard by the sight of said baby brother being jerked off by his girlfriend seems like much less of a transgression. And he is hard. Damn, he is so hard it sort of hurts, makes him light-headed, blood having rushed south a little too quickly. He understands that this is no coincidence, that it's an invitation, and yet he doesn't quite dare to whip it out and join the party right here and now. He keeps watching, rapt, until Clint's breathing visibly speeds up, chest heaving with it, losing his rhythm. Watches him spill all over Kate's hand, and lick his lips, and open his eyes again to look at Barney, and okay, finally, that's fucking it, because Barney finally regains the ability to move and promptly uses it to rush down the stairs, run out of the apartment and flee into a broom closet across the hall. His collection of embarrassing memories is somewhat impressive, but this one, masturbating between mops and buckets full of cleaning utensils and coming within minutes, orgasm so intense it almost folds him in half, is definitely going on the list. 

 

***

 

Barney takes a long walk after, and returns to cold pizza and Clint and Kate parked on the couch, both clad in bullseye print t-shirts and purple sweatpants, the damn nerds. Kate is stretched out so her legs are resting on Clint's lap, and they're watching some wildlife documentary on TV. He complains about the volume. Clint flips him the bird without looking over. 

It's so, so easy to pretend nothing happened, and Barney presumes that's exactly what they're going to do. He organizes himself a clean plate, fishes a couple pizza slices out of the box and drops onto the floor next to the couch to munch away on them in silence. He very much does _not_ think about the stunned, breathless expression Clint wore when he came in the shower, or Kate's wicked grin, or the fact that both these images make his jeans seem tighter in the crotch region than they were a few minutes ago. 

All wrongness aside, he kinda can't wait until next time. And there will be a next time, he's rather sure. 

 

***

 

For a week, Barney holds his breath during each excursion upstairs to the head, listening close, never sure whether he should slow his steps when he walks past the bed or rush past, and he'd never admit how apprehension is replaced by disappointment every time he discovers that they're fast asleep under the covers. 

Then Clint and Kate leave for another mission, and it takes days, hands them back to him bruised and exhausted, and were he the kind of man who thinks about these things, it might make a terrible amount of sense to him that the night after is when he climbs the stairs to murmured voices. The sheets rustle as he approaches the bed, but there's nothing to see yet, and so he passes them without slowing down and goes to piss as he intended, with the bathroom door closed because he's not a total savage, and braces himself for another uneventful night as he stops out. 

The lamps on both nightstands are on, old-fashioned little things that give the room a warm glow but don't really illuminate it past the upper half of the bed, but that's all Barney needs to see. The sheets have been bunched up by the headboard, and Clint is laid out on them – there really is no better way to describe it – naked as the day he was born, flat on his back, legs wide. Kate is curled into his side in wide men's underwear and a t-shirt, and, well yes, Barney had already sorta suspected that this whole show wasn't about _her_. He meets Clint's eyes, and the expression on his brother's face sways between nervous and excited while he slowly slides a hand down his own body, to his crotch, and takes himself in hand. There, he pauses. Barney nods, because he's afraid talking would disturb the surreality of this, but he also wants to offer some sort of encouragement. Kate shifts to whisper something into Clint's ear, who screws his eyes shut for just a second, takes in a breath, and starts moving his hand, all the way up and all the way down, rinse and repeat, with a slight tilt on the upstroke. Casual, really, all in all, nothing fancy, the good old practical way of chasing an orgasm. 

His face, on the other hand, betrays how big a deal this is. He's biting his lip, wide-eyed, gaze weaving back and forth between Kate and Barney, color sitting high in his cheeks. He's embarrassed, obviously, though Barney assumes that's part of the appeal, here; he wonders if this would work if it was anyone else other than him, how much the very fact that they're related, the added level of wrong, matters in this context. 

He also wonders if he's allowed, or maybe expected, to participate by jerking himself of, if he's supposed to show that, fuck yes, it's a turn-on for him too, and hey, at least that's a riddle he can solve. Gaze still pinned to his brother's, he sticks a hand down his boxers and wraps it around himself, waiting to see Clint's reaction before he goes any further. Clint groans, briefly screwing his eyes shut again, dials up the pace of his movements, and Barney chooses to interpret that as permission. He still doesn't take strip or even free himself, because there's Kate to consider and he can't know whether she signed up to see any dicks other than Clint's. Their rhythm synchronizes, although Clint's remains a little more elegant, a bit more controlled, due to his comfortable position. He's got Kate nibbling at his earlobe, now, probably whispering whatever it is Clint might want or need to hear in this moment. Her palm is resting on the inside of his thigh, and Barney notices how the muscles there tick, assumes Clint is fighting the urge to close his legs, cover up some, be a little less on display. It makes this better, somehow, knowing that he's conflicted, that he wants and doesn't want this at the same time, that it's not easy. Because it shouldn't be. None of this should be easy, or normal, or regular. 

And then Clint whines, low in his throat, mouth falling open, the motions of his hand losing all pretense of control, and he's coming, striping his hand, his stomach, legs going slack, and the sight is enough to draw Barney in right after him, spilling in his boxers like he hasn't since he was a kid. He looks down and pulls his hand out, wiping it on the fabric, and when he directs his attention to the bed again Clint has his face pressed into Kate's side, like he's hiding, while she's cleaning him up with tissues from a box on the nightstand. She nods at him with an unreadable expression, and Barney sorts himself, clears his throat, turns to walk down the stairs and give them some privacy. 

 

*** 

 

It doesn't happen again. Partly because shit hits the fan a little bit, after that, and clandestine sexual habits lose importance. Mostly because, when things calm back down, Barney has a sudden fit of brotherly responsibility and decides what went down between them was a symptom he caused, the result of a bruise he aggravated, and that it's just another reason why Clint is much, much better off without him. He bails, as cowardly as possibly, his bags hastily packed while Clint and Kate are out for the night, a handwritten note left on the kitchen counter his only goodbye. 

If he beats one off to the memory, now and then, on ratty sheets in cheap motel rooms, that's between him and his maker and no one else's concern.


End file.
